


Don't Forget the Rainbow Sprinkles

by Bittah_Wizard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Undrafted (2016)
Genre: Actual Douche!Theo, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Baseball Idiots, British!Isaac, Explicit Language, Finstock is Derek's adopted older brother, Humor, Let's pretend that baseball is coed, Light Angst, Lovable Douche!Jackson, Minor Violence, Multi, Short!Danny, Summer League, Team as Family, What a glorious tag, Young!Finstock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-02-16 11:02:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittah_Wizard/pseuds/Bittah_Wizard
Summary: Twelve ragtag teammates. Seven innings. Four bases. Two tired umpires. One intramural semi-final. What could possibly go wrong?An AU that fuses the wonderfully wonderful baseball film Undrafted (2016) and the lovable scamps from Teen Wolf.





	1. The Lineup

**Author's Note:**

> Growing up in a softball-playing and baseball-worshiping family, watching Undrafted was like re-watching the highlights of my life from ages 7-18. I loved everything about it, and the following fic was born because I have zero impulse control. Shout-out to Joseph Mazzello who wrote, directed, and starred in this movie; any dialogue or scenario you find funny in this story is 100% because of him.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the "lineup" for my fusion of the Teen Wolf and Undrafted characters:  
> Scott "Mac" McCall as John "Maz" Mazzello  
> Jackson Whittemore as Arthur Barone  
> Bobby Finstock as Ty Dellamonica  
> Erica Reyes as Mike “Tree” Triana  
> Hayden Romero as Chris Zapata  
> Peter Hale as Brian “Botch” Rocco  
> Liam Dunbar as Pat Murray  
> Stiles Stilinski as Vinnie Malzahn  
> Danny Mahealani as Jon Garvey  
> Derek Hale as Jonathan “Dells” Dellamonica  
> Isaac Lahey as Ryan Polacco  
> Vernon Boyd as David Stein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My horrible handwriting adds a little realism to this fic, eh?


	2. The Pre-Game Warm-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “Baseball Idiots” tag is in full force. Don’t really know what that means? You will.

 

 

 

Bobby Finstock rolls up in his beat-up Corolla onto the grassy ledge overlooking Beacon Hills Park. He huffs in agitation before shutting off the ignition and getting out.

He ducks his head back into the car and asks, “You sure the groundskeeper came today?”

Stiles slides out of the passenger seat and drums his fingers on the hood of the car. He takes a good look out at the field.

It looks like shit.

He grins a bright grin—one as obnoxious and mega-watt as the midday sun currently blinding him. “It’s beautiful, boss.”

An even shittier banger—complete with duct-taped windows and a sputtering muffler—drives up next to them. Raised voices can be heard even over the loud rap music playing inside.

Bobby flips open his cell phone—yeah, he works a shit job, sue him—and discreetly dials a number. “Any word?” he asks, leaning against his car door.

He frowns at the answer. “What round?”

Stiles shuts his door and catches Bobby’s eye. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and gives him the universal handwave for: _get the fuck on with it, give me the deets._ A negative shake of Bobby’s head is enough to make Stiles’ grin falter. He rolls his shoulders, reminding himself to stay positive, before grabbing his gear from the backseat.

“…yeah, if you hear anything just give me a call back.” Bobby finishes his call with a _snap!_ of his phone—a move that’s always been satisfying until this very moment.

Bobby looks over the top of his car at Stiles. “The 29th.”

Stiles forces another cheerful smile. “There’s still plenty of time. I’m not worried.”

Bobby snorts and mutters to himself, “Fucking Stilinski.”

Stiles sticks out his tongue and then pivots, wandering three steps to his right. He drops his bag to the ground and crouches in front of the banger’s driver-side door.

He knocks furiously on the window—carefully avoiding the duct tape craftsmanship, he’s a gentleman after all.

Derek lolls his head to the left, glaring at Stiles from the other side of the glass. “What?”

Stiles mimes a hand-crank, mouthing to _roll down the window_ as he gesticulates.

Rolling his eyes, Derek opens the car door and enunciates, “Whhaaat?”

Stiles darts his head inside, kissing Derek on the cheek. When he pulls back, he sees Danny smirking at them from the passenger seat. Stiles gives him a small wave.

Stiles gives Derek—codename Mr. Grumpygills—a shit-eating grin. “I was telling you to roll down the window.”

Derek, now blushing and a little flustered, scowls. “I hate you.” And then he shuts the door, but not before Stiles replies with a quick, “I love you!”

Derek’s definitely blushing now.

Danny’s door opens and he pops up. “Hey! Any news?”

Bobby shakes his head. “No.”

“Damn.” Danny and Derek both climb out of the car.

Danny walks around to the trunk and grabs his bag. He starts chattering immediately, dimples flashing. “Well it’s a good day for baseball—I can smell it! I’m ready for today! Are you guys ready?”

Stiles squats slightly and puts his hands on his thighs. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life, Danny Boy.” He turns to Derek, straightening enough to sidle closer. Running a hand along the taped window, Stiles peeks at Derek from under his lashes. “Hey, Derek, I don’t know if you’ve noticed…but there’s tape all over your window.”

Derek widens his eyes and tilts his head closer to Stiles. “Oh, yeah? _Really?_ Is there? Well, it’s like that because _somebody_ said he’d fix it.” He stares dramatically at his very _not-fixed_ car.

Stiles covers his heart with a hand, red jersey scrunching under his grip. “Going after my automotive repair skills. You’ve wounded me, Der.”

“And uh,” Derek continues, tone light but mouth quirked fox-sly, “where’s your car?” The fucker knows Roscoe died two weeks ago. “Is your _dad_ picking you up today?”

“No, in fact, _your_ dad said he’d do it.”

All four teammates start walking towards the field, navigating down the steep slope.

“Very cute,” Derek says.

Stiles’ ungraceful gait turns into a cocky swagger.

“Cup check!” Derek shouts, walking a bit faster and smashing his glove against Stiles’ crotch.

“Fuck!” Stiles yelps, watching as Derek scurries away. He cups his hands around his mouth and hollers, “If you wanted to cop a feel, all you had to do was ask!”

Stiles turns to Danny and Bobby, waiting for them to laugh at his genius joke.

Bobby’s shaking his head, disgusted. “That’s my little brother, I don’t need to hear all about his need to touch your penis, Stilinski.” Then he picks up his pace.

Danny just shrugs. “I didn’t mind it.”

Looping an arm around Danny’s shoulders, Stiles says, “Of course you didn’t, Danny—of course you didn’t.”

“Hey, did you really need a ride home? ‘Cause my mom’s picking me up and she could give you a lift—we could grab some grub after the game, maybe—”

“Shhh,” Stiles interrupts. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.” He glances back at Derek’s shit-heap. “I’ve got a ride.”

 

* * *

  

“Ugh, it’s so hot,” Derek whines, plopping down on the dugout bench.

“Where the hell is everybody? I told them to get here early so that we could get in some BP!” Bobby shouts, pacing in front of the chain link fence.

“That means batting practice,” Stiles mutters to Derek with a wink, “in case you forgot what hitting was like.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“I don’t know, man,” Danny interjects while he laces up his cleats. “I sent out a text last night and then called everybody at, like, six this morning—they should be here.”

Bobby rolls his eyes and continues pacing.

Stiles leans over Derek’s lap and stares intently at Danny. “Yeah, thanks for that call, man. Your voice is _exactly_ what I wanted to hear at the ass-crack of dawn.”

“No problem,” Danny replies, completely unaware of Stiles’ desire to strangle him.

“Gah, I feel like my _lungs_ are sweating,” Derek says, adjusting his cap.

“That’s actually a good thing,” Danny adds. He reaches out a hand and feels up Derek’s chest, grabbing and petting each pec until Stiles slaps him away.

“Oh really?” Derek asks, bitch-face at the ready.

“Yeah, it keeps your muscles loose during the game—keeps ‘em all nice and ready.”

“Is that how muscles work, Danny?”

“Most of them, yep—”

Erica and Hayden enter the dugout, interrupting Danny’s speech.

“You’re late!” Bobby yells, leaning against the entrance.

“Calm down, Finstock,” Hayden says, giving him the stink-eye. “Nobody’s even here yet—look, the groundskeeper ain’t even been here yet.”

“Actually, he did,” Derek interjects.

Hayden pauses and does a double-take of the field.

It still looks like shit.

“That’s just sad,” she says, popping the gum in her mouth. She looks back over at Bobby, brow scrunched in curiosity. “So…you heard anything?”

Bobby grimaces. “It’s in the 32nd round the last we heard.”

Erica pauses in wiping down her sunglasses. “Shit, really?”

Bobby practically snarls. “He shoulda been a 17th rounder, at the very least—”

“Peanut butter jelly time! Peanut butter jelly time! Peanut butter, jelly! Peanut butter, jelly! Peanut butter jelly and a baseball bat—!” Isaac sings—well, shouts off-key—as he gallops into the dugout, baseball bat nestled between his legs. Erica starts doing the robot in time to the song.

“You’re late, Lahey!”

Isaac slows his thrusting to look at Bobby, but completely ignores what he says in order to make a jerk-off gesture at his shadow, where the bat is making it look like he has a massive cock.

Bobby sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“To be fair,” Derek says, “Lahey is a, what was it? A seventh-year junior? So being late is kind of his thing.”

“Yeah!” Hayden adds, smirk on her face. “You still working on that doctorate, Lahey?”

Isaac flips all of them off.

Liam storms in and throws his bag onto the overhead shelf. Everyone on the bench flinches backward.

“What’s up?” he grits through his teeth.

“What’s going on, Liam?” Bobby asks.

“They’re at the 35th round and he hasn’t heard a fucking thing,” Liam replies.

Everyone’s shoulders droop at the news.

“Seriously?” Derek asks incredulously. “Not even a phone call? What about that Dodgers scout that—”

“I said not a fucking thing, Derek,” Liam growls.

“Let’s, uh,” Bobby interrupts, trying to break the tension, “go get warmed up. Come on, let’s go stretch.”

Danny immediately hops up off the bench and walks over to Bobby’s side. Everyone else slumps further onto the bench, trying not to make eye-contact with Finstock.

“Let’s go stretch,” he repeats, voice trying to remain calm.

“For this game?” Hayden snorts. “No thanks.”

“If by ‘stretch’ you mean ‘have another beer,’ I’ll gladly come stretch with you, Bob,” Isaac says, twisting his cap backwards.

Stiles cackles.

“Bad idea,” Danny adds, totally serious. “Drinking dehydrates you. And your motor skills? Kiss ‘em goodbye. No, no—no beer!”

“Shut up, Danny,” Bobby grunts. “Derek, you have to come stretch—you’re my little brother.”

“He’s adopted,” Derek whispers in Stiles’ ear.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers back, glancing at Bobby’s wild hair and manic eyes, “it’s noticeable.”

“And Stilinksi,” Bobby continues, “you’re my brother-in-law, so you have to come, too.”

Stiles elbows Derek. “Not your brother-in-law yet, so, no I don’t.” He pats the bench. “I’m good here.”

 

* * *

 

“Look at Peter!” Bobby sighs, crossing his arm across his chest and stretching. “Pushing 40 and still doing his walk-throughs.”

Danny and Derek look out into left field where Peter’s doing lunges.

“He’s actually only 32,” Derek reminds him. “You should probably know that, given we’re family. And the fact that we _just_ celebrated his birthday.”

Bobby squints, giving Peter a once-over. “Really? Huh.”

Derek cracks his neck. “Oh good,” he nods towards the fence. “Whittemore showed up.”

They all watch as Jackson leans against the chain-link, bat in hand and gold chain around his neck. He’s smoldering and doing poses for his girlfriend, Lydia, who’s twirling a piece of red hair around her finger and giggling.

“I wonder if he even knows about what’s going on with Mac,” Danny murmurs, dropping into a squat and holding his position.

Bobby settles into a butterfly stretch. “The only thing Jackson knows about is what’s going on in the mirror. Or at a Gucci wholesaler.”

Derek chuckles, swinging his arm around in measured circles.

“I’m here!” Boyd shouts, running up to the group, stumbling and a little out of breath. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!” He stops over Derek’s shoulder, putting his hands on his thighs and wheezing. “I’m sorry I’m late, guys.”

Bobby cringes and looks down at the grass. “It’s alright, Vernon, I, uh—I kinda forgot you were on the team.”

“Heh,” Boyd laughs, a little hurt. “Okay…well, I was watching the draft.”

All three men stop mid-stretch.

“Yeah,” Boyd says, “it’s at the 37th and his name still hasn’t come up.”

“Fuck!” Bobby yells. He rolls out his shoulders and glances back up at Boyd, who’s still standing there, towering over all of them. “You wanna stretch with us?”

“Am I starting?”

“Probably not.”

“Well then, nope—” he hooks a thumb over his shoulder and gestures at the dugout. “I’ll see you guys in there.” And then he jogs away.

Derek’s still trying not to laugh at his brother’s disgruntled face when he hears a loud vehicle come to a grinding halt. There’s a sharp squeak from shitty brakes and a loud _hiss!_ from the engine shutting off. “Holy shit,” he says, completely baffled. “They rented a _bus?_ ”

“What?” Bobby stands and looks over, and yep—they rented a fucking bus.

Player after player from the opposing team steps out of the shiny new bus, each ballplayer’s white uniform bleached and pressed to perfection.

“Who the hell are these guys?” Bobby asks, gob-smacked. He recognizes maybe four of the guys as regular Bulldogs players. Everyone else he _recognizes_ —but as D1 players, guys that already got drafted last year, AA players, dudes who have teams like the Phillies already lining their pockets.

Holy fuck.

“This isn’t the same team!” Bobby shouts. “These are a whole bunch of new fucking guys!”

From inside the dugout, everyone is on the fence gaping as the Bulldogs start to trickle onto the field.

“Motherfucker!” Hayden exclaims, both hands resting on the back of her head. “They brought in a bunch of ringers!”

Derek, Danny, and Bobby all run back to their dugout. Everyone else is already yelling at each other.

“Guys!” Liam yells, hand clenched tightly around his phone. They all shut up.

“My dad just texted me,” he says, head hung low. “The draft is over—he didn’t get picked.”

 

* * *

 

“Alright, fellas! Bring it in.”

Bobby, Derek, and Danny step up next to the umpires. On the other side of the infield, three Bulldogs walk over—Theo, Ethan, and one of their new fucking ringers.

“Okay, guys,” the head umpire continues. “My name is Braeden and this here,” she gestures to the other umpire behind her, “is Deaton. We’re here for the…” she trails off, confused. Braeden turns towards Deaton and asks, “What the hell are we here for, again?”

He silently hands her a slip of paper.

“Right,” she says, unfolding the card. “let’s see why I’m here ruining my Saturday.” She skims over it, brow furrowing. “We’re here for the Semi-Final Playoff game for the Madison County, Duchess County, Beacon County, West County, Mid-Summer Intramural—Jesus Christ—Amateur Baseball Association sponsored by Jiffy Lube, the VFW, and the Knights of Columbus.” She looks up over the card. “Is this a joke?”

Bobby scoffs. “No. It’s the third annual.”

“Uh-huh. And how many teams are in this league?”

“Six,” Bobby replies confidently. “Wait—seven. But, uh, one was disbanded due to a lack of interest.”

Braeden’s eye twitches. “Okay, well today’s game is between the visiting Bulldogs and the hometown D-Bags.”

“ _D-Backs!_ ” Bobby corrects harshly.

“I’m sorry?”

Theo Raeken—the Bulldogs’ leader and _literally_  Satan—stifles a laugh.

“You said ‘D-Bags,’” Bobby continues, glaring at the other team. “It’s _D-Backs_.”

“Okay, D- _Backs_ ,” Braeden repeats. “Hold on—what’s a D-Back?”

“D-Backs. The Diamondbacks—like the Arizona Diamondbacks!”

Braeden stares at Bobby. “Why—why didn’t you just name yourselves the Diamondbacks?”

The Bulldogs are openly laughing now.

Bobby sighs and slices a tired hand through the air. “Because it was too many letters. Can we please move on?”

“Sure,” Braeden waves around the field. “Here are the rules—we all know what this is. This is a summer league and everyone’s here to stay in shape. That means no collisions. Nobody’s looking to get hurt, so no cleats-up, no take-outs—and no running over the catcher. _Anybody_ does any of these things, and the result will be an immediate ejection from the game. Am I clear?”

Everybody agrees.

“Great. Now this game will be seven innings, not nine. The winner will advance to the Regionals in Westchester. Does anybody have any questions?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, angrily pointing a finger at the Bulldogs. “Who the fuck are you?”

The new guy points at himself and looks around. “Me, I’m Mason Hew—”

“AH AH AHHH!” Bobby interrupts waving his hand dismissively. “I know who you are! You’re that hot-shot center fielder from UCLA—what the _fuck_ are you doing _here?_ ”

“Calm down,” Theo cuts in. “There’s nobody here that isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Bullshit!” Bobby addresses the umpires. “None of these guys were here a week ago.”

Theo sighs and pulls out a stack of papers from his back pocket. “Everybody here is listed on our original roster. Their dues were payed either by themselves or by someone on their behalf.”

He hands it over to Braeden. She looks it over, flipping through the stapled pages. “It looks legit, you want to take a look?”

Bobby snatches it from her hand and scans the page. He thumbs through it, and looks back up, exasperated. “There’s like _fifty fucking names_ on this roster!”

Theo shrugs. “There’s nothing in the rule book about a maximum roster size.”

“This is a bunch of dog shit!”

Braeden sighs. “You want to get a lawyer?”

Bobby, trembling with suppressed rage, crumbles up the roster and throws it in the dirt. “This. Is a bunch. Of. Dog. _Shit!_ ” Then he stomps back into the dugout.

Danny and Derek shrug at the umpires and follow after him.

Braeden looks up at the bright blue sky. “I hate this job.”

 

* * *

 

A car pulls up into the field’s parking lot. Both occupants are trying their best not to fall apart.

“You know you don’t have to do this is you don’t want to,” Melissa says softly. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m sure your friends will understand.”

Scott stays silent in the passenger seat, looking out the window.

Melissa glances over at her son. “It might even be a good idea to take a break from baseball for a little while—God knows you’ve earned it.”

Scott doesn’t even blink.

“Am I right?” she asks.

Scott unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. “Let’s play ball,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

“It’s audacious!” Bobby shouts as he paces the dugout. “It’s bush league! It’s…it’s _audacious_!”

“You just learn that word, Bobby?” Hayden asks from her spot on the bench.

“Shut up Romero! Aren’t you—”

“Hey, guys.”

Everybody in the dugout turns to look at Scott, who stops dead in his tracks just inside the entrance.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

Bobby deflates. “Nah, nah, man—uh you’re fine, you’re fine. I, uh, wasn’t sure if—”

Everyone else is cringing.

“I wanted to go over the lineup with you!” Bobby improvises.

Scott shrugs. “Okay.”

They both take a seat at the end. Scott stuffs his bag under the bench and starts to lace up his cleats.

“They brought in a bunch of studs for this game!” Bobby vents, slapping his clipboard. “It’s gonna be like ’27 Yankees versus the fucking PowerPuff Girls!”

“We get it, Bobby!” Erica yells. “It’s ‘cause we’re girls— _we get it!_ ”

Bobby waves her off and turns back to Scott. “Anyway, I know we usually bat you third, but I’m gonna put you in at first—but only if you’re comfortable with it. I’m thinking that we just get you as many at-bats as possible, maybe putting speed down in the bottom of the lineup—”

“Finstock,” Scott interrupts. “Bobby, you can bat me first, you can bat me last. You can make me _bat boy_ , it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to cater to me.”

“I was just thinking with the whole…draft thing—talking about the lineup might help take your mind off it.”

Scott rolls his head against the wall and stares at Bobby. “You thought you’d get my mind off baseball by talking to me about baseball at a baseball game?”

Bobby freezes. “It isn’t working?”

 

* * *

 

“Look who’s coming,” Liam growls.

Everybody on the bench looks up and sees Ethan walking over to their dugout.

“Fucking Ethan,” Bobby spits. He launches himself out of the dugout and starts strutting angrily in front of his former teammate.

“This is the shittiest move I’ve ever seen!” He screams in Ethan’s face. “You can’t just pull a bunch of guys off the street and start a new team just because it’s the playoffs!”

“Bobby.”

“We were teammates for _three years_ at BHU, how can you—”

“Bobby,” Ethan holds up his hands in surrender. “I know.”

Bobby stops stomping around.

“I just wanted to come over here and tell you that I understand why you’re upset.” He gestures at the Bulldogs’ dugout. “It’s not _my_ team, it wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t make the roster. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.” Ethan pulls off his hat and looks past Bobby. He makes eye contact with Scott. “I also just wanted to say that I heard about the draft, Mac. That sucks—you deserved it.” He puts his cap back on and walks on over to his side of the field.

Liam scoffs from inside the dugout. “Prick.”

 

* * *

 

“Ice cream, get your ice cream here!” Stiles shouts with a smile on his face. He walks into the dugout carrying two giant cardboard boxes holding a bunch of rapidly melting ice cream cones.

The team immediately jumps up off the bench and surrounds Stiles. Boyd walks over and looks at the trays excitedly. “We get ice cream?”

Erica turns to him and claps her hands. “Mac. Eats. One. Before. Every. Game. You realize that’s the secret to his success, right?”

“So we’re all doing that now, huh?”

“Of course,” Danny says, already reaching for one. “It’s the playoffs. We need the competitive advantage.”

“Alright, back off, back off,” Bobby shouts, waving his clipboard around. “Scott gets first pick. Scott, which one do you want?”

Scott looks at the vanilla cones, each topped with a generous scoop of rainbow sprinkles. “I think I’ll skip the ice cream today.”

“What?” Erica exclaims. “You gotta have the rainbow sprinkles. If you don’t, it might create a fissure in the space-time continuum.”

“Yeah, c’mon Scotty,” Stiles pleads. “I got, like, three extra cones.”

The whole team waits for Scott’s answer, each member holding their breath.

There’s nothing but silence.

“Thank Zeus I’m here—what would you wankers do without me?” Isaac mutters, elbowing through the crowd to get to the ice cream. He takes two from the tray and walks back to his seat.

Everyone else follows suit. They form a queue, each teammate taking their cone and sitting back in their spot.

Once everyone—except for Scott, that is—is slurping on ice cream, Bobby takes a look at his clipboard and addresses the dugout. “So, guys, listen up. I gotta make the lineup—who doesn’t want to play today?”

Everyone—except for Scott, that is—raises their hand.

“Haha, very funny guys. Seriously, who’s going to sit out today?”

“Well,” Isaac says, “I’m still nursing a pretty ugly hangover. I nominate myself.”

“Alright, good.” Bobby agrees. “And, uh, Derek’s pitching so he’s not in the lineup.”

“Wait, Derek’s pitching?” Hayden asks.

Bobby looks up from his clipboard. “Yeah, he’s pitching. That’s what pitchers do.”

“But he’s our closer.”

“He’s not a closer, he’s a starter.”

Jackson sucks on his ice cream. “He closed for us at BHU.”

“Thanks for your input, Whittemore. But he’s going to start.”

Derek looks resigned. Stiles pats his knee.

“I’m just saying,” Hayden continues, “that’s a pretty big work load for someone who’s been closing all year.”

“Well if he gets tired, then I’ll bring in a closer.”

Erica grins around her ice cream and points at Derek. “But he’s our closer.”

Bobby grits his teeth. “Well I’m the coach, and if I say Derek’s a starter, then he’s a starter.”

“Wait,” Isaac interrupts, still double-fisting his ice cream cones, “ _you’re_ the coach?”

“YEAH, LAHEY!” Bobby explodes. “Where have you been?! I’m the one holding the clipboard, are _you_ holding the clipboard? No. Does anybody else have a clipboard? Please show me! No? Well, then—there you go!”

Silence.

Danny tentatively holds up his own clipboard.

The entire bench bursts into hysterical laughter.

Braeden walks over to their fence. “We’re about to start the game, fellas. Take the field.” Then she prowls back to her spot at home plate.

Bobby stares at Danny and his clipboard. “Did you bring that from home?”

Danny nods, unashamed. “Yeah, I borrowed it from my mom.”

More snickers. Boyd’s laughing so hard he’s dropped his ice cream.

Bobby smacks it out of Danny’s hand. “Now I’m the only one holding a clipboard—are you guys happy now?”

Scott hides a reluctant smile.

“Ecstatic,” Stiles says, catching Scott’s eye. “Absolutely ecstatic.”

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, go watch Undrafted. It’s the most hilarious baseball movie I’ve ever seen. 
> 
> my [tumblr](https://thebittahwizard.tumblr.com)


	3. The First Inning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s play ball, y’all!

 

 

 

They know the game’s about to start, but the moments after Bobby freaks out and slams Danny’s clipboard into the ground are too awkward and silent for anyone to make a move.

That is, until Stiles leans forward and begins to sing.

“Baaaaatttter uuuuuuupp!”

Derek smirks.

“Hear that caaaaaalll!”

Stiles jumps up, grabbing ahold of one of the polls propping up the dugout and spinning lazily. “The time has coooome, for one and allllll…” Stiles stops spinning and starts waving his hands like an orchestra conductor. “And one, two, three—” he whispers.

The entire bench, smiling their heads off, joins in: “To plaaay-ayy-ayy baaaalll!”

Peter starts clapping his glove in time to the music.

“We are the members of, the All-American team! We come from cities, near and far!”

“Near and far!” Jackson croons, off-pitch.

Stiles runs up and down the dugout, singing and giving out high fives.

“We are Polaks and Micks, two Hispanics, and a Jew—we’re all for one, we’re one for all, we’re All-Americans!”

Stiles stops in the middle of the dugout and waves for the crescendo. The team doesn’t disappoint.

“AHHHHHHHaahhhAAHHHHH!” everyone screams, their heads thrown back. “Shooby-doo-BAH-BAH-DAHHHHHH!”

When the song is finished, everyone leaps up from the bench clapping and hollering. Psyched up, they all jog out onto the field.

Danny kicks around dirt at home plate.

Liam stomps at the grass in center.

Peter starts throwing grounders to Hayden, who scoops them up easily at tosses them back.

Derek makes himself at home on the pitcher’s mound. Stiles slaps his ass, grabbing a good handful as he runs by on his way into right field.

Derek blushes. Stiles grins over his shoulder, unrepentant.

Bobby adjusts the strap on his glove, and notices that Scott isn’t at short. He looks around the field, finally spotting him in the dugout.

Scott’s bent over the bench, taking a few bites of an ice cream cone.

Bobby looks away, smiling to himself. He gives Scott a nod when he joins them on the field.

Maybe it’ll be an okay day after all.

 

* * *

  

“It’s a shit day, huh Melissa?” Chris Argent asks, leaning against the fence next to her.

She pushes a hand through her curly hair and sighs. “You could say that, yeah.”

A Bulldog steps up to the plate.

“How’s Scott doing?”

The lead-off hits a grounder to second. Hayden fumbles it a bit.

“You got time,” Peter shouts, mitt raised and ready. Hayden picks up the ball and fires.

One out.

Melissa offers him a weak smile. “He’s a tough kid, he’ll bounce back.”

Derek throws a wild pitch about five feet wide of the plate.

Chris cringes.

The Bulldogs dugout—about 25 players deep—starts whistling and hollering.

Melissa looks away from the game and glances over at the bleachers. She spots Allison sitting at the top, wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in all black. “How’s your kid?”

The Bulldogs start chanting: “Ball, ball, ball! Good eye! Ball, ball, ball! Good eye! Ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ba—”

Peter does a double-take and stares at their bench for a second, eyes cold and calculating.

They shut up.

The batter hits a dribbler to Bobby, who tosses it over to Peter.

Two outs.

Chris squints over at the Bulldogs, and then focuses back on Melissa. “Oh, Allison? She’s spent the last three days stress-eating string cheese and watching the draft. She’s probably more messed up about it than Scott—she was so excited for him. Your boy earned it.”

She nods and looks out at the field. “He got an offer to play in an independent in New Mexico, and to play in Italy. It’s up to him, though.”

Chris hums.

The Bulldogs’ third batter pops one up, and Scott handles it easily.

“Thatta boy, Scott!” Chris shouts.

Allison wolf-whistles from the stands.

Melissa claps and smiles. “That’s my boy!”

Three outs.

And then the top of the first is over.

 

* * *

 

“Give me a B! You got your B, you got your B!” _Clap!Clap!_ _Clap!Clap!_ “Give me an A! You got your A, you got your A!” _Clap!_ _Clap!_   _Clap!_ _Clap!_ “Give me a T! You got your T, you got your T!” _Clap!_ _Clap!_   _Clap!_ _Clap!_ “Now what?” All of the Bulldogs pause in their cheer and squat, hands going to their belt buckles in sync like some giant cowboy boyband. “You don’t want none of us!” They start kicking their legs in time to the chant. “Boo-yaka, boo-yaka, WHAT! Boo-yaka, boo-yaka, WHAT! Boo-yaka, boo-yaka, YEEAAHH!”

Liam leans against the dugout fence, fingers gripping the chain link. He doesn’t take his eyes away from the Bulldogs. “Someone needs to tell those guys to shut the fuck up.”

Danny’s in the corner trying to give fielding advice to Hayden. She’s nodding along with murder in her eyes.

Scott’s digging into the batter’s box, stance balanced and arms gently waving his bat back and forth.

The Bulldogs start up again: “Hey batter, what’s the matter? Can’t you take a little chaaaaaaatttteeeeerrrrrr—”

The pitcher winds up.

“—Swing!”

Scott swings and misses, the ball dropping low and away.

The Bulldogs cheer and bang on the fence. Theo’s hanging off of it like a monkey, swinging back and forth and hollering obnoxiously.

“Let’s go Mac!” Hayden cheers, voice drowned out by the Bulldogs’ noise.

Erica spits out a sunflower seed shell. “Do they realize it’s the first inning, or…?”

Scott makes contact, the ball flying high into the outfield.

The center fielder jogs to his left, standing under the ball and catching it cleanly.

One out.

Scott rounds first and watches as the ball gets thrown back in. He yells in frustration and kicks the dirt, jogging back into the dugout with tense shoulders.

Stiles claps him on the back when he sits down. “You’ll get the next one, bud.”

Jackson steps up to the plate, bat against his shoulder. He looks at Bobby, who’s giving him signs from the fence.

Danny runs up behind Bobby and stands to the side. He starts doing signs, too—running his hand down the opposite arm, tapping his nose twice, pulling on his ear lobes, swiping down his thigh, and then cupping his crotch.

Jackson rolls his eyes and steps out of the box entirely. “No.”

“What do you mean _no?_ ” Bobby yells.

“I’m not bunting in a summer league.” Jackson steps back in. “You’re not even giving the same signs,” he calls over his shoulder.

Bobby turns to Danny. “What are you signing?”

Danny cringes. “Uhhhh…steal?”

“You can’t _steal_ first, Danny!” He turns his wrath on Jackson. “Whittemore! You have to do what I tell you to do!”

Jackson scoffs. “Yeah, whatever, asshole!”

Bobby stomps his foot. “I hope you strike out, Whittemore!”

Jackson chuckles and then ropes the first pitch into the gap between first and second base. He rounds first, still chuckling as the right fielder throws it back in to the short stop.

He starts unstrapping his batting gloves and smirks at Bobby from across the field. “What was it you said again, Bobby?”

Danny claps and gives Jackson a thumbs up. He looks up at Bobby and asks, “Should I have him steal now?”

“Shut up, Danny.”

 

* * *

 

Peter glances down the bench at Scott. “You know it’s because of your size, right?”

Everyone freezes. Peter’s diving into uncharted talking territory—The Draft.

Scott raises a brow.

Peter nods. “The scouts hold that shit against you—makes them overlook you. But then if a 6’5” goon steps up and couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a fucking boat, they all start salivating.” He stands and places a foot on the bench. Peter leans on his knee, staring intently at Scott. “As long as he has size and power, they think they can teach him to hit. Let me tell you something—if he hasn’t learned how to hit in 21 years, it isn’t going to happen.”

“Preach!” Stiles yells.

Peter swats at him.

Everyone nods.

“It’s steroids!” Liam erupts. “That shit is everywhere in the college game—even some guys at BHU are doing it! They do it and then they get drafted, only to get caught and forced to stop! Then they suck and get dropped in a year! They take spots away from guys that deserve it—from guys like Scott who run on vanilla ice cream and fucking rainbow sprinkles!”

Everyone nods faster.

Derek leans against a fence post. “Who wants that life though? Especially if you suck—then you’re stuck in BumFuck, Iowa, playing single A for a couple of years, and getting paid nothing. Who’d want that?”

Everyone stops nodding.

“Shit,” Danny sighs. “I’d give my left nut for that.”

“Fuck yeah!” Derek grins.

Everyone chuckles.

“Hey, yo Peter,” Hayden calls. “Didn’t you get drafted back in the day?”

“Maybe.”

Isaac leans forward. “Can’t remember that far back, eh?”

Peter’s smile turns sharp. “Well, I’ll never forget the day when the carriage rode up to my manor and handed me the telegram.”

More chuckles.

Hayden tilts her head. “So, whatever happened with that?”

Peter rotates his arm. “I hurt my shoulder playing center, trying to throw a runner out at home. Something snapped—a slap tear, I was told. I was still pushing to play, so I went through surgery after surgery until I finally just had to…let it go.”

Boyd raises a hand. “So…do you have a gnarly scar?”

“I do.”

Boyd raises his hand again. “Can I…see it?”

“Sure.”

The whole team crowds around Peter as he rolls up the sleeve of his jersey. A mass of swirling scar tissue—raised and intersected—covers his shoulder.

Stiles pokes it.

“That’s badass!” Boyd says. “So at least you have that.”

Peter’s face goes blank. “I lost 40% of my range of motion, and I’m highly vulnerable to reinjury, so…”

Boyd gulps. “Good point.”

“So why do you even do this league?” Liam asks.

“Well I play first base now, obviously—so it’s a lot less throwing. But, if you must know, it’s because of the game. It’s got its hooks into me.”

Scott stares down at his glove.

There’s a _crack!_ of a bat meeting a ball, and the whole team looks out at the field.

Bobby’s hit into a double play.

And he’s _pissed_.

“Why didn’t you slide, Whittemore?!”

“Because I was dead to rights, dipshit!”

“Bullshit! You’re just afraid to get your uniform dirty!”

Three outs.

“Fuck!” Erica swears.

And that’s the end of the first inning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Kudos to anyone who knows what movie that song in the first section is riffing off of.  
> Also, a Kudos to anyone who has endured or partook in the hell of softball/baseball chants. 
> 
> my tumblr


	4. The Second Inning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a fun chapter to write, my dudes

 

 

 

“Yeah—yeah, yeah, yeah! Now I remember where I know this guy from!” Theo jeers from the dugout.

Derek doesn’t even glance at him as he throws his first warm-up pitch.

“He was that lights-out closer for BHU this year!” Theo continues. “Except when they got to the conference playoffs, he blew it for his team and BHU was eliminated.”

That gets him a look.

“Hey, everybody!” Theo gestures for his teammates to gather round. “Don’t worry if this guy is pitching tough now,” he flashes Derek a nasty smile and presses his whole body against the fence. “Because when the pressure’s on, he just chokes it away.”

“Hey!” Peter yells softly from first base, eyes unblinking and reptilian. “Knock it off.”

“Oh yeah, Osteoporosis? What are you gonna do about it?”

Peter smiles, the edges not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s your only warning.”

Theo hesitates, nervous but not wanting to show it. “Before what?”

Something red and lanky slams into the fence, abrupt and loud and unexpected enough to cause the Bulldogs to flinch backward and Theo to shriek in fear.

Stiles grins evilly, unpeeling himself from the chain-link and staring Theo down for a few more seconds before jogging out to his position.

Theo’s startled gaze flicks back to Peter, who casually fields a ball and answers, “Before I sic Stiles on you. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

The whole team looks out at right field where Stiles is lazily tossing a ball back and forth with Liam. He catches them all looking and smiles that same manic grin, running his finger slowly across his throat as he does it.

The whole dugout shudders.

“No,” Peter murmurs to himself, deliciously malicious in his hopeful anticipation. “We wouldn’t want that at all.”

 

* * *

 

“Christ, I’m bored,” Isaac sighs, taking off his hat to run a hand through his unruly curls. He looks over at Boyd—who’s tapping out a rhythm on his crotch, knuckles knocking against his protective cup—and Jackson—who’s steadily working his way through a sleeve of double-stuffed Oreos.

“Okay, gents!” he declares, whipping out his wallet and waving it around. “It’s time for bench bets!”

Boyd stops tapping. “What are bench bets?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jackson asks incredulously, mouth covered in Oreo crumbs. “How do you of all people not know about bench bets? Half your life is spent on the bench.”

“Oh, no, I play. I play,” Boyd defends weakly. “I’ve… _played_.”

Isaac and Jackson both snort at that.

The Bulldog up to bat hits a grounder to Scott, who fields it cleanly and tosses it over to Peter.

One out.

“Bench bets, my dear Vernon,” Isaac says, accent becoming more posh, “is a gentleman’s game that one plays on the bench, at a baseball game so that you don’t die of boredom. Okay?”

Boyd’s eyes widen with excitement. “Oh I _like_ that.”

“Of course you do, you’re a smart guy,” Isaac replies. “Alright, I’ll start us off nice and easy. I’ll bet that the next at bat lasts exactly five pitches.”

“Okay, alright…” Boyd digs out his own wallet. “I’ve got $100 that says it’s six—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Isaac asks. “I told you this is a _gentleman’s_ game. I thought you were Jewish, for one—what are you coming in here with $100 for? How about we start off with $5? Is that okay with you, fucking Moneybags McGee?”

Boyd grins. “I’m just ruining stereotypes for you, huh? Just blowing your mind.” He takes out a crisp $5 bill and throws it in the dirt between them. “Okay, fine, $5.”

Jackson dances happily in his seat, flicking out five $1 bills into the dirt. “I’ve got four and under.”

“No, no—you can’t get four and under, we’re going off the exact number of pitches,” Isaac argues while tossing his own money into the pile.

Jackson shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, I call four and under.”

“Strike one!” Umpire Braeden calls out.

“I’ve got six and over, then!” Boyd pipes up.

“No, you can’t have six and over, either!” Isaac huffs, voice rising in irritation. “I don’t just get _five_ and you guys get everything else!”

“I’m just going to write this all down really quick,” Boyd interrupts. He finds a pen and notebook in the helmet cubby above their heads. “So Jackson has four and under…and I’ve got six and over—”

“Strike two!”

“Don’t—! Now don’t you write that down,” Isaac splutters.

“Write it down,” Jackson garbles around a cookie.

“Don’t you dare write that down, Vernon!”

“I’m gonna—”

“Strike three!” Braedon yells, punching out the batter.

Two outs.

“Ooooooh, talk dirty to me, baby!” Jackson purrs at the money. “That’s three pitches, come to daddy!”

“That doesn’t count!” Isaac screams. “Three pitches doesn’t count!”

“I had four and under!” Jackson argues.

“No you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did,” he turns to Boyd. “You’re my witness—I had four and under.”

“You didn’t have _shit!_ ” Isaac counters, getting red in the face.

“I call my witness to the stand!”

“False witness! False witness!”

“Give me my Euros, fuckface!”

“Get your fingers out of my face!”

Boyd starts laughing hysterically. “Why don’t we just play another one, guys c’mon let’s—”

“THAT’S IT!” Isaac erupts. Boyd and Jackson both shut up. “Bench bets are _off!_ ”

“Shit,” Jackson mutters petulantly.

“It’s like my Nana always said—if you expect to have fun, forget it.” Isaac gathers up all the loose cash on the ground and passes it back to them. “I hope you two are happy. Now you just have to sit here and _watch_ baseball—that’s your punishment.” He stuffs his money back into his wallet. “For fuck’s sake!”

Boyd pouts.

Jackson frowns around his last Oreo and looks out at the game through the fence. “Fuck.”

 

* * *

 

“H-O, H-O-M, H-O-M-E-R-U-N! HOMERUN!” _Clap!Clap! “_ Mason!” _Clap!Clap!_ “Homerun!” _Clap!Clap!_ “Mason!” The Bulldogs go wild, finishing their cheer just as their batter pops one up to center field, where Liam catches it easily.

Three outs.

The D-Backs jog off the field, Liam running in last as he detours towards the opposing team’s dugout.

“Hey, Ethan!” he shouts, voice gritty with suppressed rage. “What are you, on a 14u softball team with all of your fucking girly chants?!”

Ethan shrugs. “You guys sing.”

Liam pauses, taken aback. “That’s not the same!” he splutters.

“We bothering you, Dunbar?” Theo asks smugly as he stuffs his hand into his mitt.

Liam just scowls at him and jogs back to his own dugout. “I really don’t like these fucking guys!”

 

* * *

 

“Change of plans,” Bobby declares as he takes a seat next to Derek. “You’re not allowed to get tired. I’m keeping you in the whole game no matter what.”

Derek nods, nervous but determined.

Bobby grunts at his acknowledgment. He gets up from the bench and looks back at his brother. “Don’t make me look stupid.”

Derek’s twitching knee settles as Stiles wraps a sure hand over it. He leans into Derek’s space and whispers in his ear, “Bobby doesn’t need anybody else’s help to look stupid.”

Derek’s frown shyly morphs into a small smile. He can feels Stiles’ own grin against his jaw. “Don’t worry, Der. You’ve got this. I believe in you.” Then Stiles gets up and walks over to the fence next to Danny.

Watching him walk away, Derek touches his neck—the small spot still tingling from Stiles’ soft lips.

 

* * *

 

“I hear you have a few different opportunities, McCall,” Peter says, sidling up to Scott on the bench.

“I don’t know about _opportunities_ , but I got a few offers, yeah.”

Peter wiggles his hands into his batting gloves and raises a discerning brow. “Are you going to take one of them?”

Scott leans forward a bit on the bench, looking hesitant. “I don’t know, I just—”

The rest of the team actively ignores them both, each player haunted by the vulnerable light in Scott’s eyes.

“I—I just don’t know if it’s worth it. I mean, all of the work I’ve already put into this…it just seems like it’ll be a waste of my time.”

Silence falls between them.

“You know, after I had my second surgery, I had to go to rehab at the local hospital to get my shoulder back to working condition. This woman was assigned to my case. She was so beautiful,” Peter sighs.

Scott stares at him.

“Anyway,” Peter continues, “we dated for a few months, didn’t marry her or anything—but my time with her was transformative.”

Scott lowers his gaze.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that there’s always a bright side, even if it’s not readily apparent.”

Scott nods, thoughtful.

“My time with your mother was a good thing, and you’ll find something good from this experience, too. I’m sure of it.”

Scott freezes. “Wait—what?”

Peter blinks. “My time with your mother. Melissa. The nurse who helped me recuperate.”

“Are you—are you trying to tell me you _dated_ my _mother?_ ”

“She didn’t tell you, I take it?”

“You dated my mother.”

“I guess I’m not very good at this pep-talk business.”

“Oh my god, you fucked my mom.”

“Oh dear.”

 

* * *

 

Erica steps into the batter’s box, grabbing a fistful of dirt and throwing it into the air in the shape of a cross.

Bobby claps his clipboard. “Alright, Reyes, let’s get something going!”

She swings at the first pitch, driving it straight back into the pitcher’s glove.

One out.

Bobby’s crazy grin falls. “Not a great start,” he mumbles.

Hayden’s up next. She swings at three straight breaking balls, missing each pitch by a mile.

“Fuck!” she spits out as she walks away from the plate. “The same _goddamn_ pitch. You’re a fucking idiot, Romero.”

Peter steps up to the plate. He swings at the first pitch, sending it right into the instep of his own left foot. “Fuck!”

Danny sits between Erica and Hayden on the bench.

“You know,” Danny offers politely as he turns to Erica, “you’re just not getting your hands through the zone fast enough to catch up with that inside pitch. That’s your only problem.”

Peter swings again. The ball ricochets off of his crotch. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he seethes.

“Strike two!” Braeden calls.

Erica stuffs a handful of Big League Chew into her mouth and snaps it in Danny’s face. Crossing her arms, she says, “That’s not the problem, Danny. The problem is that I’m terrible.”

Peter limps back into the batter’s box and watches as a third pitch goes by.

“Striiiiike three!”

“Of course it is,” Peter mutters darkly, hobbling back to the dugout.

Three outs.

And that’s the end of the second inning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing that Peter/Scott scene all I could think about was Charlie from Always Sunny going "Did you fuck my mom, Santa Claus?"


	5. The Third Inning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day? Now that's what I call a double-header!

 

 

 

A Bulldog steps up to the plate.

One. Two.

“Strike three!”

One out.

Another Bulldog digs in.

One. Two.

“Strike three!”

Two outs.

Derek takes a breath, shaking out his arm. He kicks at the mound, winds up, and launches the ball across the plate.

There’s a _crack!_ when the ball meets the bat, sending it out far into right field.

“Mine!” Stiles shouts, running forward and basket-catching the line drive with one hand.

Three outs.

Stiles casually slips the ball into his hand, throwing the ball to Erica as he jogs in and yells, “Wooooooo! Made that shit look _pretty!_ ”

He pays for his theatrics later in the dugout when Danny corners him, lecturing Stiles on the Importance of Using Two Hands in the Outfield™.

 

* * *

 

“What do you want, Danny?” Derek sighs.

“I’m glad you asked!” Danny chirps pleasantly.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I just think if you went with the two-seamer instead of the change-up, you’d—”

“I don’t have a two-seamer, Danny,” Derek interrupts.

Silence.

“Oh,” Danny says. “Well, I think if you developed a two-seamer you’d be a lot more dynamic against a team like—”

“I’m pitching a two-hitter, Danny!”

“That’s two too many, two too many,” Danny repeats, slapping Derek’s shoulder supportively.

Derek turns to look at Danny, nostrils flaring and death in his eyes.

Stiles laughs himself off the bench.

 

* * *

 

“Strike two!”

Liam stares down at the dirt, determined, and reorients himself in the box.

“Hey, you got this Liam!” Hayden shouts.

Another pitch passes Liam by, sliding past the outside corner of the plate. “Strike three!” Braeden yells, punching his ticket.

One out.

Glaring at his bat, Liam backs away from the plate.

“Uh-oh,” Erica says, just as the rest of the D-Backs realize what Liam’s about to do.

“Shitshitshitshitshitshit—” Stiles yells, the sound drowned out by the clatter of Liam’s bat being thrown against their fence.

Liam kicks the dirt as he marches back into the dugout.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, Liam,” Hayden offers.

“Oh shut the fuck up, Romero!”

 

* * *

 

Stiles squares himself over the plate. “Yeah, that’s right,” he mutters cockily, “I’m showing bunt.” He wiggles his bat tauntingly over the plate. “Yeah, I’m showing bunt and then, what’s that? I draw it back!” He exaggerates pulling the bat back and placing it over his shoulder, waggling it ridiculously. “It’s Baseball 101 over here, boys, how do you like me—”

Stiles swings and misses, hips off-balanced and arms flailing.

“Strike one!”

He glances back at Braeden as he digs in. “Get comfortable back there, we’re gonna be here a while. I like to work the count, maybe foul off some pitches—you know it goes.”

Braeden rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but smirk at Stiles’ antics.

He swings wildly at the next pitch. “Shoot!” he practically spins in a circle because of his own momentum. “I bailed a little bit. I did, that’s on me.” Stiles starts talking to the catcher. “You guys trying to back me off the plate, huh? ‘Cause I’m a power hitter and you guys don’t want me digging in? I get it, man, I totally get it. I’d be scared of me, too—all this raw baseball energy just—”

Another swing and a miss, Stiles’ bat tipping the ball right into the catcher’s mitt.

“Strike three, Stilinski!”

Stiles laughs, pointing at the pitcher. “Good stuff, guy! Good delivery. You’ve won this round fair and square, I’ll see you guys later.”

Two outs.

 

* * *

 

Danny slaps at his elbow. “You just have to keep your elbows in, you know? Nice and tight, nice and tight! You know what I mean?”

Silence.

Boyd glances over at Danny’s patiently waiting face. He looks over his shoulder and then back at the catcher. Boyd points a finger at his own chest and asks, “Wait, were you talking to _me_ this whole time? You know I’m not playing, right?”

Danny squints. “Uh—?”

 

* * *

 

“Are you kidding me?” Danny whines. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Braeden rewinds her clicker and looks up. “They don’t get any better than that, my friend.”

“I couldn’t have hit that, it was way outside my zone!” he argues.

She raises her eyebrows judgingly and levels her hand chest high. “It was right here, Mahealani. Right here.”

“Bad call, Blue. Bad call!” he shouts, backing out of the box and shaking his head.

Three outs.

And that’s the end of the third inning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles being an obnoxious trash-talker is what I live for. 
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://thebittahwizard.tumblr.com/)


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